This comes in Decca’s British Music Collection
and rather reflects the fact that this company’s contribution to British
music, though containing items of very great importance (quite apart
from their loyalty to Benjamin Britten throughout his career) has been
somewhat sporadic, and has tended to reflect the interests of the artists
of their stable rather than any systematic exploration. This grouping
of recordings made over a period of 44 years of three composers with
nothing but their British passports in common – a Stanford pupil (Ireland),
a member of the "Frankfurt Gang" that rebelled against Stanford
and all his works (Quilter) and, in Rubbra, a representative of the
next generation who studied with a Stanford pupil (Holst) and another
Frankfurter (Scott) but whose spiritual links with Ireland and Quilter
are pretty well non-existent – has all the appearance of barrel-scraping,
of bunging together what happened to be available. Nonetheless, the
programme is attractive in its heterogeneous way and gives rise to a
number of reflections.

From Ireland we get his two best-known pieces, but
what about having at least one of his best? The Terfel performances
are, alas, little more than a chapter of exaggerations. In Sea Fever
he spurts ahead impetuously and then grinds to an absolute halt with
an oh-so-long pause before the last line of each stanza that seems to
say "Just listen to me, how artistic I am!". Today’s generation
seems to find it hard to maintain the sense of proportion that came
naturally to an earlier one. The youthful John Shirley-Quick, in his
Saga LP, was fairly free with the tempi, but somehow his boat kept moving
forward. A pity, since voice for voice they are equally fine. Most moving
of all, in his noble simplicity, is Paul Robeson (ASV CD AJS 244), whom
I reviewed recently. The Bells of San Marie is too gusty
to portray the lazy Sunday morning in port.

The Holy Boy was originally a piano piece, with
"official" arrangements for organ and for string orchestra
and maybe others, too. It was Herbert Brown who had the idea of putting
words to it, presumably with Ireland’s approval, though since Brown
was the family solicitor maybe it was better not to argue. Criticism
is dispelled by the quite gorgeous singing of the two boys and this
is one of the high points of the disc.

No complaints about the Grimethorpe Band’s brilliant
interpretation of the ComedyOverture under Elgar Howarth,
but what a piece to represent Ireland by! This was the original from
which he later made the London Overture and tends to show that
he had from the first a type of expression in his mind which just doesn’t
go on a brass band. Not the performers’ fault, but the orchestral piece
is so much more effective.

The Rubbra is a historic document, since these settings
were dedicated to Ferrier and first performed by her in 1949. They fit
uneasily into the fairly easy listening context of the rest, but truth
to tell I don’t think they quite amount to a great low-voice religious
cycle to put alongside the Brahms 4 Serious Songs, the Wolf Michelangelo
Lieder or the Stanford Songs of Faith (yes, I mean that!). There is
a certain hard-won joy to the last which is impressive, but the furrow-browed
response to "The Lord is My Shepherd" is hard to take and
this is not the sort of context where Rubbra’s famed sense of symphonic
growth has time to unfold. Ferrier’s voice – still sounding remarkably
well across half a century – could make a Biblical phrase sound impressive
no matter what notes it was sung to, yet even here a few home truths
need saying.

In many ways the legend of Kathleen Ferrier’s greatness
has not been and could not be exaggerated. It is a testimony to the
radiance of her personality that those of a generation old enough to
have heard her live – both my parents for example – speak of her, fifty
years on, as still a living presence, so firmly had she lodged herself
in their hearts. Add to this the tragedy of an illness bravely borne
and her early death and she was undoubtedly one of those rare mortals
who brought light into the world. But legends, along with their immortal
side, are also tied to their own period. Immortal, I would say, is her
Mahler with Bruno Walter and her Brahms 4 Serious Songs. And much else.
Unquenchable is the sheer steadiness of her delivery. Ironically, it
is when she sings in English that we have to face the fact that she
sang for another age. English pronunciation has changed over the years,
as we know if we listen to news broadcasts from the war years, "golden-oldie"
films, or other documentary footage. The very clarity of Ferrier’s diction
only means that today’s generations will have to listen through a certain
schoolmarmishness in order to get to the kernel of the message. It often
shows in the smallest details. Today we teach that you don’t pronounce
the "r" at the end of words like "care" (but was
it ever pronounced in speech?). Here it comes, conspicuously rolled
at the end of the "sae fu’ o’ care" line in "Ye Banks
and Braes". Perhaps it seemed natural in its day, now it draws
attention to itself.

In another respect, Ferrier is less dated, for there
used to be a specifically "English" way of singing English
songs. You can hear it in Jennifer Vyvyan’s rendering of "Love’s
Philosophy". The problem is not so much the very straight,
schoolgirlish timbre, the "pure white, or Nymphs and Shepherds
style", as Anna Russell called it, as the way each syllable speaks
for itself, with no legato line. It sounds like a Gilbert and Sullivan
patter song and, in this context, it appears only provincial and rather
ridiculous. Ferrier quite frankly sings "Over the Mountains"
in much the same way, but elsewhere she shows that she was turning towards
a more European style of delivery, with a true bel canto legato. Her
"Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal" is less sticky than Luxon’s
lugubrious (but finely sung) version and it would be interesting to
learn whether her textual variation at the end came from someone "in
the know". However, the performance here which shows that Quilter
fully deserves a place in the repertoire of European singers in the
21st Century is that by the Dutch soprano Elly Ameling. With
a beautifully spun legato line and an innate musicality of phrasing,
with the words just dropped into it, every one clear yet never breaking
the line, this is one of the finest performances of an English song
I know. And to think that, if the British had pushed their wares a little
more, as the French habitually do, and had pestered Miss Ameling, maybe
she would have sung a whole lot more.

The two cello items (arranged by Julian Lloyd Webber
himself?) are agreeable trinkets.

I don’t really know what sort of recommendation this
amounts too and I’m jolly glad we don’t award stars any more! Certainly
the disc offers food for thought and some precious items. We get a short
but helpful note from Kenneth Chalmers, in English only, and no texts,
so presumably a predominantly British public is aimed at. Some of the
music deserves more.

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